


Still Dreaming

by redheadache



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, POV Second Person, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:33:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadache/pseuds/redheadache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A morning in with Will Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this piece (and one other) for a while, but I think I can release it into the wild now... It can be read as a stand-alone, or as continuation of my previous story. I was very surprised by the generous response last time, and I hope this isn't too bad of a follow-up. Even if it is smaller. And more self-indulgently... strange. 
> 
> Please let me know if you see any mistakes!

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Too late._

 

 

“That better not be Lounds’ trash...”

You click to close the browser tab. “Uh, noo.”

Sitting in bed with your laptop open, you were looking through your email while Will slept. You thought you’d have more time alone, but it’s pure and clear this morning; the sun lay down bright bars across the bed... and Will’s face, now that you look at him.

His eyes are squinting- against the light? or for another reason? - and his voice is sandy with sleep. “What’s she saying now?”

You fidget.

You'd think it was sweet talk, but Will looked very serious when he said your presence helps stave off some of the nightmares (and the half-swallowed screams and sweaty tangled sheets that follow, as you well know). "Bad" mornings are still common, it's true, but you have seen an uptick in the decent and even  _good_  mornings for Will.

On these rare good mornings, Will is warm, soft edges and dark-eyes and dry, fluffy curls going everywhere. Sometimes he’ll smile at you when he’s half-asleep, cute and relaxed and sloppy; sometimes, he’ll purr half-nonsense endearments to make you giggle. 

With his hair a bird's nest and his cheek still pressed into his pillow, Will nonetheless looks too sharp-eyed and tense for a morning so bright. 

Your limbs feel heavy as you reopen the page. “She found pictures of Ted Bundy with curly hair and stubble. He looks like you, somewhat.” You tilt the screen so Will can see. “She doesn’t mention you by name, but…” It’s an article about how serial killers can change their faces and hide in plain sight.

“God, what does that have to do with anything?” He kneads his face with both hands. “It’s too early.”

“It’s ten.”

“No, it’s Saturday.”

You pinch down a grin and point out that you fed the dogs, just in case Will was wondering why the mob let him sleep. There are three limp dogs on the bed with you and Will right now. Winston is cutting off the circulation to your legs. You shift under the weight. “I'm sorry, Will. My friend sent me the link, and I didn’t think it through before I opened it.”

Will rubs the bags under one blue eye. “Good to know what your friend thinks of me.”

There’s a moment of static inside your skull. Most of your friends aren’t fans of Will – they think he’s too quiet, too intense, too secretive. This particular friend looked up “Will Graham” and found Tattlecrime.

 

 

_Your very first fight with Will went down like this:_

_You attacked with words you never meant to say, and, in turn, Will ripped into you with his cruel blue insight. Told too much truth. Every truth you'd ever been afraid of hearing about yourself poured out and when it ended you were 40,000 feet under the sea. No oxygen, only pressure._

_Will walked away with a trail of blood drips and wet footprints._

_Words are written about the feel of oceans through a lover's distance, you remembered, but they never do warn about the salt water air on open wounds._

 

You sigh. You move the laptop onto the bedside table, careful of the glass of water kept there. “Crawford wants you to know what Tattlecrime says, doesn’t he?”

“Jack Crawford will speak to me _personally_ on the extremely slim chance Lounds publishes anything of value.”

“Yeah, I know that.” You lean over, and your fingers comb through his wild curls. _Don't be mad,_ you almost tell him.

For once, Will studies your eyes and doesn’t hide it. His lips part over a pause, and what he finally says is: “Someone’s going to notice you keep changing the part in my hair.”

“You think so?”

“Probably. Maybe.”

You shrug. It’s not like you shave off his beard.

He rubs the flat of his palm over one bristly cheek. “The last time I shaved it all off, I got carded.”

You almost point out: _Will, you’ve got an entire whiskey cache in the front window. There’s enough for you to grow a full Unabomber beard before you run out._ Maybe some part shows on your face, because Will glances at the window. Maybe it's one of the downsides to dating a guy with super empathy.

He sits up on his elbows. “Do you want me to shave?”

You make a show of stroking your chin and sending askance looks. “It would help you look less like Ted Bundy—you wear it better, by the way—and no stubble burn for a month would be nice…”

“Better than Ted Bundy. Thanks.” He huffs. “Wait. A month?”

You grin and slip a hand under Will’s shirt.

He flops back and half-stretches. It makes his back arch. “You’re incorrigible. Give me some time to wake up, at least...”

Two fingers “walk” over Will’s very _lightly_ dusted chest, and it takes you a minute to catch up. “You mean you’ll shave? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You pinch his nipple.

Will wiggles away and back—like he’s hooked in place. “Just this once.” He smiles, and it’s soft, even without residual sleepiness. “If it’s what you want.”

You _are_ kind of curious...

 

 

_After your first fight, it took a week for Will to wind his way back. He sat slumped on your welcome mat for you to come home. Seeing him felt like hydroplaning._

_You didn't say anything at first, because you knew _—_ hurricanes and boats are named after people. You knew that deep in the sea are creatures with horrifying teeth, spines, poison._

_Will's eyes were (are) bioluminescent. "I'm sorry."_

_Too late, you thought. Forgiveness is a state you (still) can't control._

_You apologized in return, and sat next to him on the ground. It wasn't comfortable. You plucked the glasses off his nose when he tried to dip his head and block you from his peripherals, and laid them in his sweaty open palm._

_He touched your wrist, and you remembered dreaming—_

_of whale songs, and the echoed_ drip drip drip _ _—__

_held a conch to your ear and heard empty nothing _—__

_sound traveled four times faster in water _—__

_and, with a breath, another apology._

 

 

“Ta-da. Are you happy?” Will emerges from the bathroom.

You do _not_ squeal. You don’t. Barely. You do make grabby hands.

Will laughs at you, but he steps into your grasp. He’s dressed for the day in a sweater, the one you always threaten to stretch by pulling on it too much. Today is no exception as you tug him forward.

You rest a hand on his bare cheek and Will practically drops his head into the touch. You notice he’s blushing, and _—maybe_ you shouldn't tease him too much. Maybe. Your thumb strokes near his mouth. His cheek muscles twitch under your hand as he smiles with lips pressed tight.

You grin and openly marvel with both hands over the unusually smooth skin. You run the back of one hand over his cheek and jawline. “It’s so different.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Good job, Graham.” You touch the little spot of red where he nicked himself on his neck. It’s blotted with a speck of tissue.

He flinches. “I’m out of practice.”

You hum. One hand strays to fix his curls again. “You won’t argue if I call you cute, will you?”

He’s blushing, again, and you can run your fingertips over the warm skin. “No. I’ve given up trying to argue with your terrible taste.”

“I have great taste.” Your hands withdraws slightly.

Will leans forward to maintain contact. He meets your eyes and doesn’t falter. "So, are you happy with...?"

You smile and draw him in for a kiss with hands on both sides of his face again. His mouth parts for yours and he looks shaken when you break it off to say, “It's so weird.” Your cheek brushes his. Smooth.

“Bad weird?”

“Different.” You move one hand to grip the back of his neck and pull him close for another kiss.

“Don’t get used to it.” He shifts his stance. “Unless you actually, _ah_ , do prefer-”

“I like you no matter what you’ve got on your face.” You pause. “But don’t grow a caveman beard because I said that, okay?”

“Okay,” Will laughs into a sigh.

 

 

_Like pieces of an old song, you remembered—you're still awake, dreamer._

 

 

 


End file.
